


Sins of the Father

by HewerOfCaves



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: “Are you still not on speaking terms with your father?” Finrod asked, bringing Turgon out of his reverie.“I have always been on speaking terms with my father, thank you,” Turgon said with dignity.Fëanor and his sons aren't the only ones Turgon blames for his grief.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	Sins of the Father

**Author's Note:**

> I'VE BEEN WRITING FOR THIRTY YEARS! Well, not exactly, but this took _long_. I wrote the first three parts months ago, but the last ones were giving me a hard time. I posted like five or six other things while I was writing this.
> 
> Btw, I posted my first Silm fic on Ao3 exactly one year ago. [Here it is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095436) if you want to check it out. If you've read it, I should warn that this one is almost as sad as _For the World's End._
> 
> Happy Holidays!

_Fingon_

The night brought much-sought silence with it. The entire camp was either sleeping or pretending to sleep. Turgon stood on the lakeshore and watched the moon struggle to shine from behind heavy clouds. He often came here at night, and no one had disturbed him so far, though it was about to change. He knew the approaching footsteps. He had heard them so many times on the Ice when his brother would come and lean over him to check if he was still breathing. He didn’t turn to look when Fingon stood next to him.

“Itarillë said you would be here,” Fingon said.

“She is awake?”

“Yes, I asked Aunt Írimë to go to her. She is worried about you. We all are… Father most of all.”

Turgon wrapped himself tighter in his old fur cloak. “There is no need to worry,” he said curtly.

Fingon put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I know you are still grieving—”

Turgon shook off his hand. “What do you know? How can you know?” he said in cold fury, turning to face Fingon. “You cannot know what it is to lose someone so dear just because your father decided to do the impossible out of anger and a twisted sense of duty—”

“We all were angry—”

“Or do you think you can understand me because you miss the traitor, who is the only one of their lot suffering the consequences of his actions? Moringotto should have taken them all!”

“That is a cruel thing to say.”

“No. Do you know what is cruel? To hear your daughter ask if she will ever see her mother again. What do I tell my daughter, Findekáno? Do I say yes, implying that she will die, which is almost inevitable? Do I say no and break her heart? What do I tell her?”

The compassion and pain shining in Fingon’s eyes were too much to bear. Turgon averted his gaze.

“I don’t know,” Fingon said, “I’m sorry.”

“What do you want, Findekáno?” Turgon asked wearily. His cloak was heavy on his shoulders. He could barely move his limbs. All he wanted to do was to go and hug his daughter, but he knew that if he saw her now, he would break down, shattering the strong façade he had so carefully built for her sake.

“I wanted to talk,” Fingon said. 

“What about?”

“Father. He needs your help.”

“Why would he, when he has a son like you, ready to jump ahead without pausing to consider if he should?”

He regretted the words even before Fingon blanched, but his anger was back with a new force, and he didn’t apologize.

“We face many dangers,” Fingon said quietly, “Who knows what may happen to me? We may be attacked tomorrow and I may be killed. I want to know Father will still have two children to rely on in that case.”

Turgon shifted on his feet and clutched at his cloak.

“Father doesn’t want a war,” Fingon continued, “Neither does Makalaurë, I think, but others might. We are angry, and they are proud. I fear even a small accident may spark a war.”

“We would crush them if they dared.”

“Maybe, but at what cost? One kinslaying is more than enough.” Fingon sighed. “Listen, I know you are angry with Father, but I ask you to support him in keeping the peace. Please, promise me this.”

“Fine, I promise that I will do nothing to provoke violence and will prevent others from doing so if I am able. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes. Thank you, brother.”

Turgon frowned, perceiving the slight tremor in his voice. Only now he noticed that Fingon was attired for a journey. He was wearing his traveling cloak and warm clothes. His bow was on his shoulder and his sword was hanging from his belt. He even had his harp. 

“Where are you going?” Turgon asked.

“Hunting,” Fingon answered immediately.

“At this hour?”

“The air is cleaner at night.”

“Are you heading out with no companion? Why didn’t you go with Irissë and her hunters in the morning?”

“Do you think you are the only one who wishes to be alone sometimes?”

It was a fair enough reason, though still unusual for Fingon. Turgon shook his head, unwilling to dwell on his brother’s strange behavior.

“Very well, Oromë sharpen your arrow,” he said by the force of habit.

Invoking the Valar came with certain awkwardness these days. Nonetheless, Fingon nodded his thanks but didn’t move. Turgon stared at him, expecting him to say something, but instead, Fingon silently took a step forward and wrapped his arms around his brother. Turgon started. He didn’t reciprocate the hug but neither pushed Fingon away, as he usually did.

“I love you, Turvo,” Fingon said and released him.

He had already disappeared when Turgon thought of saying it back.

_Finrod_

Lying under the shade of a short redwood, on the bank of a merry stream, surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers, the rays of the setting sun drawing abstract patterns behind his closed eyelids, Turgon was as close to bliss as he thought was possible. Finrod’s silvery voice joined with the cheerful burbling of the stream, as he told Turgon of a tune he had learned in Doriath and softly sang some verses. Turgon’s mind was wandering in the memories of a past long gone, when he was just a child, hiding in the palace gardens and giggling as his grandfather looked for him, pretending he couldn’t hear the laughter.

“Are you still not on speaking terms with your father?” Finrod asked, bringing Turgon out of his reverie.

Turgon was well familiar with the way Finarfin’s children would throw non-sequiturs in their speech every so often (and Finrod wasn’t even the worst offender), but the question still jarred him. He was hoping for quiet evening rest and a refreshing night walk back to Vinyamar, but his friend apparently had other ideas.

“I have always been on speaking terms with my father, thank you,” Turgon said with dignity.

Finrod waved his hand. “You know what I mean.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Oh, please, Turukáno, when did you last write him a letter?”

“A week ago if you must know.”

“A personal letter, not a report.”

Turgon stayed silent. 

“When did you last visit Hithlum?”

“Why are you so interested in my relationship with my father?”

Finrod looked at him warmly, the way only he could, and made him feel foolish for asking that question.

“Because I care about you,” Finrod answered anyway, “You were close to your father, and I know that you miss him. It can be remedied so easily. He is here. You can talk to him. It pains him too, Turvo. I know Uncle has tried to reach out, but you push him away every time—”

“Did my father talk to you about this?”

“No.”

“Did my brother?”

“…Yes.”

“Of course he did.”

“Well, of course. He is concerned about you too. Turvo, your father is not to blame—“

“No? He was the one who led us across the Ice. Fëanáro burnt the ships, and my father had two ways to proceed. He chose the one that claimed the life of my wife. He chose it! No one forced him. Maitimo said that Fëanáro had believed we would turn back and return to Valinor, and you know, I trust him on this. Even Fëanáro was not mad enough to think anyone would attempt to cross the Helcaraxë. But my father thought that his wounded pride is worth more than the lives of his people. And now we are here, cursed and abandoned by the Valar, destined to suffer and die. How do I protect my people? How do I protect my daughter, Findaráto? It may be peaceful now, but the Enemy is not sleeping. He will attack. The walls we have built will not stand then. What can we do against the might of a Vala? Where do I hide Itarillë? How do I make sure she survives?”

Finrod was silent for a long time after Turgon’s animated speech.

“Do you have anything to say to it?” Turgon asked, not expecting an answer.

“I understand your fears and your pain, Turvo, but I think you are being a hypocrite,” Finrod said finally, his gaze still warm, “You cannot deny that you enjoy being a lord of your own right. It would never be possible in Aman. You cannot deny that you love the city you built. You love the wideness and the wildness of Endórë.” He raised his hand when Turgon made to protest. “Yes, I know you would exchange it all for Itarillë’s safety or Elenwë’s life in a heartbeat, but Turukáno, you say no one forced your father to choose the Ice, but then no one forced any of us. We chose it. _You_ chose it. You could have turned back at any moment. You could have taken your wife and your daughter and gone back to Valinor with your people. But you didn’t.”

“How could I when my father, _my king_ , made the decision to cross the Helcaraxë. How could I abandon him?”

“He wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“No, but I am no coward to run back to safety and let others go into danger.”

Finrod’s sea-blue eyes turned icy. Turgon froze when he realized what he had said.

“I did not mean—”

“You said what you meant.”

Finrod’s voice was quiet but cold. Turgon had never been on the receiving end of that tone. Very few ever had.

They didn’t speak on their way back to Vinyamar. Finrod left the next morning.

_Aredhel_

Closed in his chamber for a moment of rest, Turgon could still feel the agitation in the air. He perceived the pulsating restlessness of the palace, of entire Vinyamar, of all of Nevrast with every particle of his body. It reverberated inside him, mixed with his own anxiety and weaved a buzzing yellow mesh of unease that he was tangled in. 

Turgon took a deep breath. He was just overly worried as usual. Everything was ready: people – excited, armor – forged, letters – written, baggage – packed. He started going mentally through every step that lay ahead, feeling the mesh tightening around him but unable to shake it off. He missed Elenwë dearly especially at moments like this. The mesh would fall apart with only a gentle touch of her hand.

He started when he heard the knock at the door. Without waiting for his permission, it opened, and first his sister’s fuzzy head and then the rest of her slipped inside.

“I knew you would be here working yourself into a frenzy,” she said and plopped into an armchair. “Breathe, Turgon, Lord of Nevrast, no, wait… Turgon, King of whatever you are going to name your new city.”

Turgon forced his face to stay rigid, but Aredhel was watching him like a hawk and noticed the strain, and when she laughed wildly, like only she could, like a hot stream bursting suddenly through the rocks, Turgon couldn’t help but smile. 

“Wait until we have built it,” he said, “It is going to be as beautiful as Tirion.”

“Yes, Turukáno, as hard it is for you to imagine, I understood it the first hundred times you and your daughter repeated it.”

Turgon grinned and sat on the windowsill. The buzzing mash quieted somewhat.

“It will be safe,” he said, “If I work hard enough, it will be safe for you, for Idril, for all of our people. No one will be hurt there.”

Aredhel stood up, sauntered to her brother and slung an arm around him, pulling him close. She said nothing, and neither did Turgon, but he didn’t feel entangled any longer. 

“Have you written to Father?” Aredhel asked after a short silence.

“Yes,” he said. Aredhel fixed him with a stare and he fidgeted, looking away. “I did.”

Aredhel sighed. “I wish you would speak to him before our departure,” she said.

“I spoke to him when he last visited us.”

“Oh, of course, you did. Here, my King, let me show you our granaries, yes, the harvest this year was excellent, oh, of course, we are thinking about defense.” She made a face. “You could have sent your recordkeeper and spared yourself the discomfort of having to see him.”

“You have gotten better at doing my impression,” Turgon said.

Aredhel shoved him away. “You are insufferable. I am being serious, Turukáno, you are going to regret not reconciling with Father. I don’t think you are going to have many chances to see him once the construction starts. Talk to him. Please. He has reached out so many times only for you to rebuff him. That is not how one should treat one’s own family.”

“I have written him a letter,” Turgon said coldly, “If you do not approve of my methods, you are welcome to leave with the messenger and join Father’s or Fingon’s household with the others who do not wish to come with me.”

“This is not about me, Turvo,” Aredhel said, sighing, “Don’t shut me out, please.”

“It was a serious offer, Irissë. Sometimes I think you don’t realize how determined I am about the secrecy of the city. It will be hidden until the Enemy is defeated, which will not be by the hands of the Eldar. I wish to keep you safe, but if you want to leave now, I will understand.”

“Oh, don’t be a fool, Turukáno, you know you are my favorite brother.”

Turgon raised a brow. “I am sure you tell Findekáno the same thing.”

“No, I don’t!” 

Turgon snorted. “I am willing to bet that if I open your letter to him, it will start with the words “hello, my favorite brother.”

Aredhel laughed and punched Turgon on the shoulder. “Yet I am coming with you,” she said, “It will not change.”

Turgon took her hand and squeezed it in silent gratitude. 

“What will I find if I open your letter to Father?” Aredhel asked quietly, “Two lines and barely a farewell?”

“Irissë, don’t start.”

“Why won’t you talk to him?”

Turgon had many answers to that question. _I don’t know how. It is too late. I am still angry. I am afraid._

“I don’t want to,” he said, “And I have no desire to continue this conversation either. Please.”

Aredhel looked at him sorrowfully, and Turgon shivered, afraid for a moment that his sister could see all his thoughts. Aredhel leaned over, kissed his brow and left wordlessly. 

_Idril_

Turgon heard his daughter approach lightly and softly as if she was dancing on snow. She used to do that on the Ice when they had just begun their journey. 

She stopped next to the throne and rested her hand on Turgon’s shoulder. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to see the vast hall, which would forever stay empty and dark, no matter how many people would fill it and how many windows would open.

“Father,” Idril said gently. 

He raised his head and looked at her. She was dressed in white, her bright hair braided in a stern bun. She wore no jewelry except a single silver pendant in the shape of an arrow twinkling in the gloom of the hall. Her expression was grave but composed, so different from how Turgon knew his face appeared. She had inherited Elenwë’s Vanyarin looks, but she had the insight and equanimity of Anairë, her grandmother. 

“Everyone is waiting for you,” she said.

Turgon nodded but didn’t move.

“I will lead the ceremony if you are not willing,” Idril said.

“No. It would be disrespectful.”

“No one would think so,” she said firmly, her steely gaze locked with his tearful one. Turgon was reminded uncomfortably that she had also inherited the strength of will of her grandfather.

“No,” he repeated, “It would be disrespectful to her.”

She nodded. “It will not take long,” she said, “I have prepared everything.”

“Her boy?” Turgon asked, “Is he there?”

Anyone else would miss the minute strain that came over Idril’s features, but not her father.

“He is,” she answered.

“How is he?”

Idril’s face softened. “How one would expect.”

“We need to make sure he feels comfortable here.”

“We will,” Idril said, her stern mask back.

Turgon stood. His daughter handed him the crown and straightened his crumpled white robes. They walked to the door side by side, but Idril stopped before stepping out.

“Will you write to Grandfather?” she asked. 

It was not often that Turgon wished the family trait of bluntness had bypassed her, but he did now. He didn’t turn to her. “What for?” he said quietly.

_He is going to be dead soon, anyway, they all are. This land is a death trap. No way out. Our only hope is to hold on until help comes._

“She was his daughter. He deserves to know,” Idril said. When Turgon didn’t answer, she took a step forward and stood before him. “If it were me, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Turgon started, his eyes wide. 

“Never say that,” he said, in a quiet but forceful voice, “It will _never_ be you. I wasn’t able to protect my sister, but I _will_ protect you. I built this city for you, and it will stand when everything else has fallen. The Doom will not have you. Not you.”

“Father, Father, I know,” Idril said, taking his hands, “I know you will protect me. It was only an example. I believe Grandfather should know and I thought that it would be wise for you to reconcile with him in this dark hour.”

“It is too late, Idril. I have not written to him in years and I do not want my first letter to bear the news of his daughter’s demise.”

He saw by the look in her eyes that she wanted to argue. They stared at each other for a minute, but in the end, she acquiesced. 

“I will write to him,” she said, “I will write to Uncle too. I imagine they will…”

Her voice broke all of a sudden, finally overcome by sorrow. Turgon opened his arms and she hid her face against his chest and wept, silently, the way she had on the Helcaraxë. Turgon held his daughter close and schooled his own features into a king’s mask.

_Fingolfin_

“You would like my city, Father, I built it in reverence for Tirion the Fair. It may be but an echo of the city of your birth, but it is a strong, clear one, and I love it. You would too, I deem. Or perhaps you would not, perhaps your likings have changed. I wouldn’t know, would I? Findekáno would know, or Fingon, rather. Findekáno was the brother I loved, wished to emulate but never could, the brother I didn’t forgive. Fingon is now the High King of the Noldor in your stead.

“I never forgave you either, Father, but I believe you knew that. Sorontar didn’t know or he would not have brought you here. Or perhaps he did but believed Gondolin is the safest place in a dying land. I built my city in secrecy and closed myself in it, certain that I would never want to look back. And now, no matter how much I wish I had been there, how much I wish I had changed something, I cannot. Could I have changed your fate, Father? I am not sure, but I could at least see you smile at me for one last time. Alas, you know I always held onto my grudges. 

“How many times have you counseled me to let them go? I never learned how to do it. Never learned how to make others like me as effortlessly as my siblings did, never learned how to not push away those who did anyway. Never learned how to apologize or to accept an apology.

“I would apologize now, Father, but it matters to you no longer and brings me no relief. I would tell you how I had spent ages blaming you for something I chose. I would tell you that I have come to love this city, the work of my hands, more than I thought I could. I would tell you that maybe I regret our journey over the Ice less than I show. But it is too late. You will not hear it. You will not see me or your grandchildren unless the heart of Mandos is moved and he releases the rebelling Noldor from his Halls.

“I wish you could have met Maeglin, or Lómion, as Irissë called him. He is her spitting image. Sometimes I cannot bring myself to look at him. Sometimes I feel like there is a wall between us as impenetrable as the gates of this city. You would have doted on him, I know that. You could have reached him. You could have made him smile. Sometimes I think that my daughter and I aren’t enough.

“If only you could see Idril, Father. You would love the person she has grown into, of that I am certain. She is smart and strong and sensible. I know it in my heart that if no one else survives, she will. She is so much like Mother. I never forgave Mother either, did you know that? I didn’t forgive you for going and her for staying. What was the right choice? Perhaps I will never know. Perhaps there was none. Perhaps I would not forgive myself no matter what I chose. Because that is what lies at the heart of it. My guilt was too much to bear, so I pushed it on others. I pushed it on you.

“I wish you were here. I wish I had told you this when you could still hear me. I wish you could see what I made and look at me with pride. But in place of your sharp eyes, your cairn will watch over the city I built, and my apologies are meaningless now. Instead, I will make you a promise, Father. Whatever it takes, I promise to aid my brother when he needs it, and I promise to keep your grandchildren safe. Lend me your strength, Father, for I fear my own will not be enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Finwë was a good grandpa!](https://zealouswerewolfcollector.tumblr.com/post/187376949302/zealouswerewolfcollector-i-bet-finw%C3%AB-was-a-very)
> 
> 2\. The Finrod bit takes place a decade or so before Ulmo gives Finrod and Turgon visions, so they make up and start wandering together again after this awkward incident.
> 
> 3\. Someone: Slightly hints at Finarfin's decision to turn back.  
> Finrod: 
> 
> (Most of these notes are about Finrod's part, probably because it was the first one I wrote. Also, I don't know if you can tell it from my username, but I love Finrod.)
> 
> 4\. They use Quenya and Sindarin names interchangeably (though the use of Sindarin prevails with ages), but Idril, being younger and mingling with the Sindar in Nevrast, actually prefers her Sindarin name.
> 
> 5\. This has nothing to do with the story, but I've had a massive health scare and a minor surgery lately. Everything is fine, it was just a scare, but please, don't neglect your weird moles.


End file.
